About Time
by filthysmile
Summary: In the middle of the war, in his family dungeon, Draco Malfoy makes an inescapable decision that binds his life to Hermione Granger forever.


**About Time**

 **Chapter 1**

In the corner of the dungeon cell lay a broken girl. He looms over her, his lean features casting a shadow over her folded body. He ponders for a second to himself that this was probably the closest he had ever been to her, and that in the dim moonlight, where he can see her purple skin glimmering in protest, she had never looked so helpless. Hermione Granger's backbone was somehow more defined against the charcoal background of the dungeon, by definition: his dungeon. Her limbs looked never-ending in the meshing of the translucent white, grey and black.

Draco studied the frail frame sprawled out on the floor with a faint taste of disgust in his mouth. The sinister surroundings remind him of a bad Grimm fairy-tale that his mother used to read him when he was very little. Was he the hero or the foe? Even he doesn't know the answer to _that_ particular question at that very moment; only time would tell.

Granger was never pale, he realises; the Gryffindor always had a golden halo around her, as if those damn lions engraved themselves into her skin, making her skin shimmer, and her eyes molten brown and gold. At this moment Draco remembers her laughing on the green grass outside the Astronomy Tower, with her frizzy hair being thrown back by the wind, and her carefree smile radiating to those around her. In reality, Draco had never seen her this way, but this is how she was immortalised in his mind - surrounded by friends, carefree, happy. For him, she was the epitome of sunshine and flowers and sea breezes and things that horrible _Death Eaters_ like him never got to have.

He's not sure of how to proceed, so instead he takes a few tentative steps towards her curled up body. She's picked the furthest corner of the room, probably attempting to get as far away from her torturers as possible in such a tightly-knit space. He notices how utterly still she appears to be, like a rag doll discarded and forgotten. He knows her attackers are close, though. They never leave their toys for too long.

Funny, all these years of calling her mudblood, and he's never really _studied_ her before. In his mind's eye, he remembers her figure to be much fuller, rounder. Healthy. Now, her bones are clearly visible against her taunt pale skin, her blonde hair limp and straight against her bony shoulders. He realises that she probably cast a lightening spell on it for disguise. "Clever," he thinks. The curls of the fiery Gryffindor do set her apart; in fact, he'd been sure no one would have recognised her if it wasn't for that idiot, Fernir. A faint echo of "arsehole" meanders its way through his head, and he becomes self-aware of his analysis of his former classmate. He was only supposed to check that she's breathing.

"Granger… wake up, Granger," he hurriedly whispers, and shakes her fragile form.

Her milky skin is exposed through the tatters in her muggle clothes. He sees the red meat of her taunt muscles exposed, tangy scratches and purple bruises covering her like a deranged map. He holds his breath somewhat, trying not to dwell on the amount of pain that his fellow Death Eaters imposed on her. This was pure hatred. _This_ was war.

She isn't moving or even wincing anymore.

He sighs slowly, and looks back down the ominous corridor, making sure none of the others followed him into the Manor's Dungeons. The Gryffindor princess was isolated from the other prisoners for fear that they would try to help her escape, and because she was (in theory) by far the most famous mudblood, and as Potter's prized possession, it was assumed that he would come and rescue her. He hoped that Potter wasn't that stupid, but one never knew of the risks the boy-who-just-wouldn't-die was willing to take.

He may have felt like a prisoner in his own home, but at least he wasn't being tortured regularly. His house had become infested with sick individuals who thrived, and even got off on torture. Sitting through "murder dinners" made him have a new appreciation for vegetarians and made him realise that blood was red no matter what race or blood status one had.

He hated the colour red.

If Draco was completely honest with himself, he really wasn't sure as to what he was doing in the dungeon. He couldn't heal her because the others would just torture her more, and he couldn't help her escape because he didn't know _where_ to send her, or even _how_ to help her. Looking at her frail body helplessly, he tries to shake her awake again.

"Merlin Granger, you're a Gryffindor, and I need you to open your eyes for me!"

He was sure that if she was conscious and not chained up in his basement, that she would probably laugh at him in this moment. Here's the traitor of all traitors trying to shake her awake, and whisper shouting whilst at it! He knew that if she didn't begin talking, Hermione would be taken to Bellatrix and killed. At first, she was too proud to talk, and now she was too fragile to talk. Potter and Weasel clearly weren't coming for her and her usefulness, as the Death Eater mudblood toy, would soon be expiring.

"Granger, open your eyes or I swear to Merlin himself that I will kiss you right now!"

His empty threat didn't work, so he sucked in a breath and decided to try his magic on her. If anyone traced it back to him, he can pretend that he went to Crucio her in his spare time.

Casting a quick reviving spell on her, he concentrated on her face. She didn't move her body, but her face scrunched up in pain, and he could see the glimmer of her eyes blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the opaque blackness of the concrete floor.

"Crap, Granger don't you dare move, or you might break something important."

His wand is outstretched between them, and he sees her try to move her arm and fail.

"So much for not healing you," he mutters under his breath, and continues in a louder tone, "I know that you'll just try your wandless magic on me, but please don't bother. I'm not here to hurt you, and you're too weak to do anything to me."

She makes a disgruntled noise using the back of her throat, and he nearly smiles.

Always a fighter.

"I can't heal you fully, Hermione." Draco sighs, and as an afterthought adds: "this is going to sting, princess".

This soft admission was his white flag, and she remains still, so he takes this as her acceptance of his truce and begins to heal her insides.

Draco Malfoy, former Hogwarts student, Death Eater, killer of Albus Dumbeldore and reluctant servant to the Dark Lord, has been summoned by his mother into one of the oldest parts of the Malfoy Manor. As he meanders down the long hallways away from his wing, he wonders when the next round of screaming will start. His Dark Mark has been oddly quiet today, and the Dark Lord has been absent for the last four days, or perhaps it was longer, but in these times of war, hardly anybody kept track of the exact time. Draco tried to measure his agony in calendar months, but sometimes he would be sent on obscure assignments where the logic of time and space didn't comply, so he too became lost in War Time.

He could feel it, though: the culmination of something big happening. Unsure of what it is, or what it _will_ be, he prays silently that the snatchers will stop coming, and that this awful time will end in the near future.

Looking out onto the grounds, he notes that the fresh meat training has began, no doubt the house will be infested by more Death Eater recruits in the next few months. At this point, it was rather liberating being left with utter morons in the house. He could leave his mind unguarded for the time being as there was no one in the house with the ability to read him. Besides, those imbeciles who could try would be detected and killed straight away. It was a good day to be alive, he thinks to himself and chuckles at his own ironic admission.

This wonderfully stupid thought carries him to the sitting room, and he smiles softly at his pale mother.

Narcissa Malfoy sits stoically on one of her flamboyant Parisian couches and notes her son's almost happy expression. She motions for him to sit, and pours herself a cup of tea. Draco studies her slowly and knows that if she didn't love him quite so much he would probably be dead. Noticing that Draco wasn't going to start explaining himself, she narrows her eyes at her only child, and begins her assault.

"Draco, dear, do you care to explain to me why there's suddenly a new addition on the Malfoy family tree?"

Her voice is soft; guarded. She's mad, Draco realises, and not the type of mad like 10-year-old-Draco is careless mad, like when he stole his father's broom and decided to serenade Pansy Parkinson outside her window, but the Draco-my-favourite-idiot-son decided to kill the leader of the Muggle Free world _mad_.

"What would you have me do, mother? Let that crazy bitch murder my classmate?"

Narcissa presses her lips together into a grim line. The "crazy bitch" was, of course, her unfortunate sister Bellatrix.

"We both know this won't end well for anyone, and I certainly don't plan to be alive at the end of this," Draco continues and pauses to pour himself tea.

She looks at him in mild surprise, the first traces of emotion appearing on her face.

"I wish you would tone down the dramatics, Draco dear," she murmurs, slowly picking up her intricate tea-cup. The fact that her hands tremble doesn't go unnoticed by Draco.

He raises his eyebrows at her, and she momentarily muses that he looks so much older than his actual age. The light blonde hair is no longer slicked back in that god-awful style he used to wear, but rather is now trimmed short at the sides, with a messy top, covering his eyes. Narcissa's eyes drink in his simple outfit: simple black trousers and a black t-shirt, clutching at his defined muscles from the hours of merciless training.

Narcissa, whilst studying him intently, smacks her lips together and weighs all the options. She doesn't need to read her son's mind to know that this was a decision he hadn't taken lightly… and that this was some form of redemption for him. She realises, that he is not aware of this fact, and ponders for a moment, the long, comfortable silence enveloping the room, as she continues to sip her tea. Finally, she speaks, asking just one question: "why?"

"Mother," he starts, and sighs, unsure of what to say. She watches him intently, cocking her eyebrow at him.

"You can't be mad at me for sullying the bloodline, because there _won't_ be a bloodline after this war. You and I both know this. I'm just," he pauses, unsure of how to continue his line of thought, "I'm just tired of pretending that this will end well. It won't. Father is downright crazy, Voldermort is getting quieter, and that is never a good thing, and I'm slowly driving myself insane waiting for the next order." He finishes in a quick breath, his words precise, but unpractised. Perhaps she is the only woman who can recognise him flustered.

Narcisse pauses, and smirks at him, slowly drawling out her sentences in a precise manner, "this all led you to the bright decision of _betrothing_ yourself to a mudblood?" She asks calmly, her teacup once again travelling up to her mouth, her hands steady once more.

"Erm, maybe?"

* * *

 **A/N: Let me know your thoughts! I'm not yet 100% sure how long this will be, so it's really up to the plot bunnies!**


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